


Ash-fingered

by auspicium (latenightfangirl)



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Gen, Immortal Reader, Mages, Magic, Magic-User Chara (Undertale), Magic-User Frisk (Undertale), Magic-User Reader, Magic-Users, Necromancy, Not Really Character Death, Other, Reader Has A Perserverance Soul, Reader Is Gender Fluid, Reader Is Not Chara (Undertale), Reader Is Not Frisk (Undertale), Reader-Insert, Time Loop, Undertale Genocide Route, Undertale Pacifist Route, Work In Progress, reader has magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-25 18:42:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16666159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/latenightfangirl/pseuds/auspicium
Summary: You never leave your house without your gloves.The auroras paint the sky above the mountain every night, yet snow never falls.And the Favored Child is anything but.You stumble into the Underground, only to find that it's under the influence of a time aberration worse than that of Mount Ebott itself - a particularly vicious time-loop, to be specific, and seeing as the Favored Child has been missing for a few days now, you can only guess how long it's been in the loop. Rather begrudgingly, you set out to fix the mistakes of the child. You've not been an apprentice for a long while, after all. If anyone is to take responsibility here, it's you, the adult mage.





	1. Crags and Cracks and that which Splinters Between

The cliffside is steep. The opposite face of the ravine is a slanting wall of slate and stone, roots peeking out and dangling over the edge in a mess of crumbling debris and dirt. From a distance, it disappears beneath the wild bramble and shifting terrain, creating a dangerous pitfall for the unaware.

You’re overwhelmingly relieved that you had been keeping your eyes glued to the ground, scouring for herbs as you were. Dittany of Crete often grows near crags like these; but you hadn’t kept that in mind as your search turned to scour and dawn faded to dusk. A shiver runs down your spine. The chasm is dark and seemingly bottomless, but perhaps you’re simply letting your imagination run away with you.

It would be terribly difficult to climb out of something bottomless, you think distantly.

The dittany is carefully wrapped in a handkerchief and stored in your belt pouch. You brush the dirt from your pants as you rise from your crouch, leaning forwards in morbid curiosity. The hole is rather large compared to the others that dot the face of the mountain - nearly a dozen times larger, in fact. Closer to the edge, the ground is cracked and splintered, threatening to fall into the void. It wouldn’t be safe to go any closer than you are, but a glint of color grabs your attention and draws you forward.

It’s a healthy, golden yellow, and is swaying gently in the gusts coming up from the hole - a marigold, you realize with a start. You feel the earth shudder beneath your foot, unconsciously having taken a step forwards. You pull back and count your losses; a marigold would’ve been nice to take home, but it’s too far down the cliffside with too few handholds (and none that you trust) near it.

You turn, heading back.

* * *

Your home is a small cottage with moss between the stones and perpetually creaking floorboards. It’s half your own craftsmanship, and half the remains of your mentor’s old cabin in the woods. The ceiling occasionally drips when it rains a little too hard or for a little too long, and crows tend to sneak in even when the windows are closed and latched.

When you step inside the house, a new stack of letters is waiting for you, piled neatly in front of the door. You kick it off to the side to join a much larger and messier stack of unopened letters, weeks and months and for some, maybe even years old. Half of them are addressed to one name in particular, while the rest are dotted with a wide variety of aliases. No matter the address, they arrive at your doorstep.

As expected, a crow is found at your dinner table, a rather rugged square table constructed from the wood of the juniper tree that fell when your mentor passed. She loved it dearly, and though you used most of it to craft her an alter and offerings, you still had plenty left to use for yourself - thus spawning your table, your dresser, and the traveling altar you kept in your pouch.

The crow, meanwhile, drags its claws uselessly over the pristine surface of your table as it caws and flaps its wings. You sigh and the window nearest it rattles open, startling the bird into silence. It tilts its head, beady eyes fixating on you, before managing its clumsy way out the window. The draft blowing in is nice, so you decide to leave it open; it’s not as though anything that gets in wasn’t going to anyway.

You head for the apothecary room, affectionately dubbed the “violet room.” You’re quite proud of it, considering you’re not supposed to be able to grow plants. That superstition urged you to spite the locals with your rather petty attempt at defiance. Which, while harsh, is an accurate description; it’s not as though they’ll ever know of its (rather fitting, in your humble opinion) nickname.

The violet room is your favorite section of the house because of its wrought iron windows, split by black rods into a series of warped stained glass panes. It had originally been normal glass, but with a lot of dead plants and experimentation, you had discovered that particular shade of glass had worked perfectly for your aspirations - which came as no surprise, in the end, as it’s a very soothing shade of violet.

The light always fell directly on a collection of mirrors in the center of the room, angled to shine the light onto the plants which lined the walls of the room. You had belladonna, mandrake, and more than a few other related species, including a trellis of morning glory. An old and worn writing desk sat nestled off to the far right, surrounded on each side by a tower of pale-petaled aconite.

Ancient leather bound tomes, hastily compiled journals, and sheafs of paper and parchment splattered with ink stains and charcoal drawings litter the desk, along with a glass blown orb that sits on the highest shelf, sparks of light dancing inside its murky confines, crystals and stones and the occasional bone - but what you’re looking for is the mortar and pestle tucked in the nook of the lowest shelf, just behind the amber jar of bone-meal.

You swiftly unlatch the pouch with your pickings of dittany, tossing them in the granite mortar and letting the saliva pool in your mouth. You close your eyes, the violet light dimming to a tide of drifting color behind your eyelids, the occasional flicker of something else shifting beyond your sight. You spit into the mortar and return your attention to crushing the dittany, counting your breaths, steadying your heart, and humming the chant your mentor taught you so long ago.

The rest of the ritual passes in a haze of familiarity, the steps well practiced and no longer needing your full attention. You scoop the nearly complete ointment onto a sheet of rice paper, wrapping it and sealing it with the blessing emblem.

The window closest to you is already cracked enough for you to reach out and set the finished product on the pane. You manually shut the window and latch it despite the futility of it. Sighing, you press the heel of your palms against your eyes until you see stars.

It’s been a long day, and it’s about to feel even longer. You can’t sleep just yet. You need to make a run into town (as much as you dread doing so) and attend the latest meeting. After your graduation from apprenticeship, your mentor had been almost appalled at the realization you rarely (if ever) attended the meetings after your first. Almost, because she had been of a similar mindset as you when poked and prodded about her true feelings about her soulmates, but despite that little confession, she had been a professional above all else - or at least carried the appearance of being so, and had never missed a meeting herself. You attend them every blue moon, and that’s only if you’re forced - it has to be monumentally important for you to work up the effort to head into town.

Because town, despite being situated at the bottom of the mountain, is a rather literal time consuming endeavor.

* * *

The shimmering veil of lights overhead is an enjoyable sight as you plow through walls of tree limbs and foot-snatching bramble. You can’t help but recall the pitfall from earlier, and force your eyes to scan the ground rather than the sky. The forest floor is nothing spectacular; simply dirt and fallen branches, moss-cushioned stones and the occasional mushroom.

You swear you pass the same stone with an odd pattern of moss on it for the third time in a row, and you feel a migraine building behind your eyes.

The sky remains a blanket of darkness and stars and ribbons of emerald greens and pale aquas.

Your breath rises in plumes in front of you, and despite only shrugging on a thin coat before shouldering your way out the door, the cold didn’t touch you. Your feet are sore, though, and your steadily growing irritation with your luck has started to wear on your nerves. Of all nights for a long walk, it had to be tonight - but you had prepared for such an occurrence. The meeting was two days off when you left. If you’re as unlucky as you suspect, you should still make it a day early.

But when the forest starts to ease out into a somewhat recognizable path, and the sky begins to creep into hues of red and pink, you feel a coil of dread building in your chest. Ebott is within full view now, the gate unmanned and easily passed through. You keep to the less traveled roads, dashing through the dawn-quiet village with a racing heart.

The basilica is looming over you, all pale grey stone and wooden doors. You grip the door handle, tugging, but it doesn’t budge. You try it again, certain that you simply hadn’t put enough force into it.

“It won’t open,” says a voice from behind you. The frustration of the day (days?) slams into you like a landslide. You close your eyes out of sheer desperation to keep it all locked in. “You missed the meeting,” they continue. “We expected better of you this time. I was certain I put enough emphasis into the message how important this session was.”

“Justice,” you greet, turning around. You let your back press flat against the door as you meet his yellow gaze.

“Perseverance,” they return with a nod. Their hands are clasped behind their back, and the skin around their eyes is pinched. Whatever it was they discussed, it must have been important.

“I left two days early. Surely you can see the effort I put into making it this time.” You glance at the sky, judging the faint glimmer of stars that have yet to fade into the crisp blue of morn. “How long has it been? Since the meeting.”

“It commenced yesterday at dawn and concluded during late noon. And no matter the amount of effort you put into arriving, you nevertheless did not attend.”

A prickle of cold washes down your spine. Though it’s not by much, Justice is being unfair to you. You could expect that out of the others - maybe not Kindness, or Integrity - but for Justice, this meant whatever they had discussed had most certainly been a big deal. Your awful, no good curiosity sparked with a vengeance. You hastily pushed it down.

“I apologize, then. Could you catch me up to speed? I want to help, but I can’t do that if I don’t know what’s going on,” you say. Justice glances away, internally wrestling with something from what it looks like. They eventually seem to settle on a decision, though their face is lined with unease, rather than their normal bland expression.

“This shouldn’t be spoken of in broad daylight such as this - but,” they bite their lip, “the Favored Child has gone missing.”

Your heart plummets into your stomach.

Justice shares your grim expression, shaking their head, one hand running through their hair.

“That’s - serious,” you say, unable to express more than that in simple words. Very serious indeed.

“Very serious indeed,” echoes Justice, causing you to full body shudder. They give you a wary glance before plowing on. “Bravery has left to search wherever he deems worthy of his time - I wish he had given us a better estimation than, ‘I’m heading into the woods,’ but alas. Patience is checking over with each of the neighboring towns, and the others, while busy with their duties, are using their spare time to search their delegated areas.”

“And - what about beyond the neighboring towns? What about the cities, or the mountain?”

Justice gives you a slow blink, as though what you had said was particularly dim of you. You sink into your usual coping mechanism: apathy. “I doubt that they would have any interest in going to the city. And with their view on magic there, there’s a high likelihood that no one from the city would have any interest in kidnapping them.”

You intend to leave it at that. Don’t let them patronize you further. But it slips out in an instance of that terrible, dreadful curiosity - would they say it? were they just the same as everyone else in Ebott? “And the mountain?”

They laugh. “Everyone knows not to go on the mountain unless they have a death wish.”

You shrug and grunt, passing them by. “I’ll keep an eye,” you throw back, to which the response to goes unheard, drifting on the wind heedlessly.

Passing through town, you note that not much has changed - the youngest generation of soulmates stick to the courtyard, playing under the supervision of Kindness. She gives you a smile and a wave, easily spotting you despite your gravitation to the sidelines. The children are playing without a care, as though their soulmate isn’t missed in the slightest.

You both are and aren’t surprised. The Favored Child is indeed shown a greater amount of favor than the rest - separated from the rest for individual teachings, special lodgings, and given an almost worshipful sort of treatment. You knew as much from your earlier memories. Determination had been a spoilt brat when he was a kid. He grew out of most of it, though he’s still a bit stuck-up. The current Favored Child you don’t know much about. You know they’re an orphan, though that tidbit is often kept hush-hush. You know that they’re just as small as those children running gleefully around, and are just as fragile as the rest of them.

But they’re also a Favored Child, and you can’t help but hate them for that.

* * *

You reach home in a record amount of time. It seems that for all the time the trek to town had robbed you of, this journey had been cut much shorter for. Traveling up and down the mountain had always been a surreal experience, even for one as accustomed to magic as you. The temporal discrepancies are interesting to say the least, and a pain at most.

But the familiar crisp air of the mountain and coziness of your home seem to make all the burdens of the day fall away.

The thought of the Favored Child lingers, however, and you can’t but remember the chasm near the dittany, and the danger it presents.

No one wanders up Mount Ebott. It didn’t pose any danger to anyone but yourself. But the worry festered in your mind - a sign, you think, just to warn people; but there’s no one to warn… And as the thoughts stack up like a tower, they all go toppling with one sudden sense of unease. You trust your intuition. You read omens in birds and clouds (when you were in town; the mountain didn’t have clouds) and the stars. Your tea leaves tell you when your luck is good or bad. Your gut tells you when something needs to be done.

And right now it’s urging you to visit the crag that cracked the mountain.

* * *

You pull on your good coat before heading out, throwing your cloak on top of it. The Favored Child surely hadn’t gone up the mountain. But unlike the others, you know there are exceptions to every rule. It’s best to cover every base. You’d keep an eye out for the child, and while you’re at it, take a second look at that hole.

There’s something about it, you’re sure, but you just can’t put your finger on it.

Your hands flex subconsciously.

It takes you a bit to retrace your path to where you found the dittany, and during that time you spy neither hide nor hair of anything living. The forest is always silent and still, save for the echoes of your own movements, so you’re utterly certain the child is not anywhere you’ve passed.

The chasm seems different in fluctuating light of the aurora, almost bigger. You approach it carefully, minding the edges. But as you get closer, you realize it is different: the spot you had stood days ago, that trembled under your weight, it’s gone.

The ground is crumbling, a large chunk of the earth missing. Crouching, you hesitantly slide down it, closer to the edge than you would prefer. But you have to check… have to know if the child, by some blessing, is still holding on or stuck along some edge…

You don’t see the marigold. You don’t see anything, really. It’s an endless void of darkness and quiet. Disquiet. You don’t know what to feel. What to say. You’re numb. Is the child dead?

Your grip on the earth slips. You start to slide forward, even as you attempt to clamber backwards. You slip off the edge in a tangle of awkward, flailing limbs as you clutch at the cliffside, falling back into the abyss.

You know it’s going to hurt, but you’re more worried about how you’re going to climb back out.


	2. SAVE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And you know there’s only one choice you will make.
> 
> _SAVE._

You wake in a bed of golden flowers.

Buttercups.

There is something deeply unsettling about the spot your sprawled out on - an ingrained intuitive sense urges you to leave it immediately. You do so without preamble; or attempt to.

Your leg is bent in an odd direction. Your wrist is shattered, crushed beneath your weight from when you fell. You think your head is bleeding.

This is almost worse than the time you got caught in the landslide.

You manage to hobble out of the bed of flowers and onto cold stone floor. There, you take a moment to straighten out your leg and reset your wrist, all the while prodding and poking your head. It hurts, but it’s nothing you can’t manage. The pain, compared to what someone else would feel, is dulled. That is, you wager, a blessing in of itself.

You wish _that_ had been your blessing, rather than the one you did receive. Though you wouldn’t have survived the fall without it; so perhaps it is something to appreciate.

_Perhaps,_ you echo, looking up into the vast chasm that is the hole you fell down. Your earlier musings had been eerily right; you couldn’t climb out of that. You’d have to find another way out, starting with the cavern leading out of the area you found yourself in.

Your bones have resolidified by now, and the wound on your head knitted up. You’ll clean off the crusted blood later, when you find water or an exit, whichever comes first.

You patter down the uncomfortably path-like hall, until you reach what can only be two pillars carved into the stone walls, made in the appearance of an archway. Beyond it is a room - for it cannot be a cavern, you now realize with impending dread - with only a plot of grass in the center and another arched entryway beyond that.

For a moment, you wonder if you have stumbled upon some ancient temple, long abandoned and forgotten to time. You wish you had paid more attention to your history lessons, but all you can recall of the ancient practices were the burnings and the uprising.

You pause at the oddly placed patch of grass, feeling a ghost sensation of unease, and hastily pass it, careful to move around it. Hesitation strikes you again as you reach the next room.

The floor has evolved from carved stone to well-structured purple slabs, an intricate design marked into the floor - you don’t recognize it, but rather study it: there are eight circles surrounded a larger one, each with a design etched within them: pyramids, spirals, stars, waterfalls, a human foot, coins, a plant, rain, and in the center, a robust map of the world. Other symbols surround it, and it all feels so viscerally unfamiliar, that you consider returning to the marigold bed.

But you know nothing waits for you there.

So you move on, circumventing the emblems on the floor, and giving the pile of red leaves and heart etching a cursory, if unsettled, glance. The next room has what appears to be a puzzle mechanism that opens the door - it is already solved, and you are not sure for how long it has stayed that way, but the thought that you might not be alone down here bothers you greatly.

You remember, suddenly, that you suspected that the child had fallen down here as well. Could they have…? But they must have been injured. Even if they had survived, and without serious injury, it did not erase the fact that there is intelligent technology down here. Were there, in fact, people inhabiting the mountain without contact to the outside world?

You pass through the next room, ignoring the solved puzzles and continuing on through the winding halls. You come upon what appears to be a training dummy, a large gash sliced along its side. The stuffing is pouring out, and as you intend to pass it and keep moving forward, you see _something_ hovering above it. You know what it is, but you’re not sure _how_ that’s possible - dummies aren’t alive, after all.

Right?

But, nevertheless, you approach it. You gently reach forward, trying not to startle the soul essence lingering over the body. It twitches and flings itself frantically out of the way of your hand. You pull back, startled. It truly is the remains of a soul.

You ponder.

And you know there’s only one choice you will make.

_SAVE._

With your opposite hand, you peel off your glove, revealing your ash-stained fingers. They’re grey, darker at the tips, but the color has yet to reach your palms. You are both proud and ashamed of the color. Not letting your thoughts linger on the memories the color holds, you pull off the other glove and stuff them in your pocket.

Reaching out once more, you gently work the stuffing back into the dummy, running a finger down the slit and sighing in relief when it seals back up. You patiently coax the soul residue into your cupped hands, whispering softly to it. You can feel your eyes light up, and your skin glow a faint violet, before abruptly turning translucent. In one whispered exhale, you murmur the chant, watching with a keen eye as the soul reforms.

It’s not like any soul you’ve encountered - it’s like an animal soul, pure and unburdened by the blessing. Except, it is also reversed - upside down and white, you consider it curiously before it regains awareness, returning to the dummy, which immediately takes off into the ceiling.

You wonder just what exactly you’ve fallen into.

* * *

The halls are rather straightforward, without many crossroads, but with plenty of twists and turns and completed (and rather dangerous looking) puzzles. You reach the first room that has two routes - and just before the turn on your left, there is a pile of dust and soul residue. You resign yourself to bringing back any number of corpses you find down here, because otherwise, the guilt would eat you alive.

This time, there is no body to work with. You dip your fingers into the dust and call what remains of the soul down to it, chasing your next breath with the words of the resurrection chant. Your eyes begin to burn, and violet shimmer across your skin, and your bones glow in the light of rebirth.

By the time you are done, there is a frog standing before you.

An unnaturally large frog that is also, apparently, not a frog.

It croaks fearfully before jumping past you, sending you falling over. You don’t mind; dying is never the easiest thing to deal with, especially when it seems to be as violent as these creatures have experienced. You decide to move onto the next room (which only contains a tipped over bowl of candy) and then press on in the other direction.

There is a ridiculous amount of corpses reduced to dust, and each time you resuscitate them, they scamper off in fear. You are used to receiving unkind responses to your blessing, as well as unappreciative ones. These fearful reactions do not faze you except to sadden you. You shake off the pity you feel for them, instead reinforcing your motivation to SAVE them all.

After reviving a strange, almost bug-like creature (that was even more skittish than the others, if possible) you collapse into an exhausted pile on the floor. You feel your chest rising rapidly as you swallow breath after breath. Your eyes are on fire, but you ignore the pain. This is the only pain you feel in full; your blessing is not without its price, as all boons are equal in reception and contribution.

There is a strange table with a slice of cheese on it that you only take notice of because of your momentary rest. It clicks in your mind once you see the mouse hole, and, feeling the lingering euphoria of the kindness that is resurrection (though not all see it as such) you decide to do yet another smaller kindness, and place the cheese before the hole. You do not wait to see if the mouse takes it or leaves it, knowing that deep down you will be disappointed if it does not.

In the next room, you trip over your feet. Hovering a foot off the ground is a ghost - not soul residue, not a soul, but an actual ghost - crying thick tears over a pile of leaves, looking lost in their own morose thoughts. They see you, gasp, and fade out of existence.

You’re not sure what to think of that experience, except maybe HOPE that not everyone is a pile of dust down here.

* * *

You know, the moment you reach the house, that this will be the defining moment.

If you find a pile of dust, that is all you will find beyond this point.

You call out, grasping onto the HOPE that somebody will answer -

\- but nobody came.

* * *

You scour the house. There are shelves upon shelves of books about topics varying from snails (which you only ponder upon for a moment’s confusion, before moving on) to the history of monsters. Those souls - pure, unblessed, and oddly enough, upside down - are monster souls.

There isn’t much to be learned from the books. It seems as though the heavier topics have been removed from the shelves. You continue your search for a wayward soul, instead.

The kitchen smells faintly of cinnamon and butterscotch, and rather predictably, snails. There is a knife missing from the drawer.

One of the rooms is made up for a child, with a small bed, toys, and a thick layer of dust. There is no soul here.

The next room is dressed for an adult, but there is a conspicuous lack of photos. You feel… lonely.

You pass the mirror on your way to the stairs. Your reflection stares back at you, wan and exhausted. A shadow is lingering over you, what might be a hand passing over your eyes. You see nothing. You move on.

Down the stairs, down the hall, and down, down, down, your gaze drifts.

A pile of dust, and a shimmering, weeping soul.

You kneel down, already pulling your gloves off. This soul, though sad and ancient and wrought with a deep, aching weariness, cooperates with you much more readily than the other monsters. Your fingers sift through the dust, calling the soul residue towards it, as you whisper the chant. Despite the burn of your eyes, and the numbness of your fingers, you continue on. As it reforms, this soul shines brighter than the others did - stronger and more powerful.

You feel something drip down your cheeks as the goat monster fully regains corporeality. It’s warm.

“Oh dear,” she murmurs, crouching down to your level. You don’t think you can stand up. “You’re injured,” she says, as though she hadn’t just been dead, hadn’t just been _murdered -_

You start to cry in earnest, feeling the gash open in your chest like a chasm in the earth, like a child’s knife slashing through skin. All of the fear, the pain, and the death that you’ve stored up in you needs to be let out.

You have a good cry, though it’s blood. At least the goat lady is nice enough to hug you.

(You can’t remember the last time you were hugged.)

“I’m very tired,” you tell her once you’ve finished letting it all out. She nods, looking a bit unsteady herself. You notice her glance at the door, and once you’ve put your gloves back on, your gather her attention by grasping her hand.

“I think we could both use something to drink,” you say, hoping that’s the right way to go about this, whatever this is. You’ve never revived this many people before. You’ve never revived people, period, until now.

“Yes,” she says, finally appearing more put together. You both head back up to the main floor, you, staggering and more than a bit slow, and her, matching your pace and subtly moving to support you. “Do you like tea?” she asks conversationally, as though you weren’t a human who had been sifting through her dust a moment ago.

“Um,” you say, suddenly awkward thanks to your rather dark thought. “Yes. Tea is good. What kind do you have?”

She smiles slightly for the first time since you’ve seen her. It looks like a mockery of what it’s supposed to be.

“I have golden flower tea, chamomile, peppermint, cinnamon chai, and a few other blends.”

“I’ll take whatever you’re having,” you say, wondering why you asked if you were simply going to play timid guest in the end.

“The golden flower tea is very good,” she responds, not at all put off by your houseguest faux-pas. Perhaps she’s used to having socially awkward guests. Or she understands how it is to have been alone for so long…

“Then I’ll have that,” you reply, suddenly tired.

The two of you share a cup of tea (which is, in fact, very good) and ruminate in somber silence. You consider asking how she died, but even with your lack of social etiquette, and lack of practice in reviving the self aware, you know that’s a sore subject. What are you supposed to say to someone in this situation? Are you supposed to comfort them? Ignore it?

“I never caught your name,” she begins. You look up from your tea, which you had been ruminating intensely upon. “My name is Toriel. I am the caretaker of the Ruins. I... care for the humans that fall down.”

“I am Perseverance,” you introduce yourself. Her expression turns strained, so you attempt mollify the situation. “But I also go by Persephone, if that is more to your liking.” She nods, repeating your name with a sort of care you’re unused to.

“Persephone,” Toriel says. “I’m sure you’re wondering how I… died, I suppose.”

“Um,” you so eloquently utter.

“There was a child, who fell before you. They were so much like my first child… and, even though I shouldn’t have, I trusted them. I still do. Is that wrong of me? I know that they killed me, attacked me, but that means they can protect theirself. I don’t want another child to die at Asgore’s hands.”

You want to ask her who Asgore is. What happened to her first child. But you push away your wretched curiosity. “The child,” you say. “They killed all of the monster before you, in the caverns before here.”

Her eyes widen. “In the Ruins? All of them? Oh dear…”

“Ah, don’t worry,” you say quickly, “I revived them. So they’re okay now. Maybe not emotionally, but…”

She takes your hands in hers, and you flinch, but she remains steady. “Thank you, my child,” she says, earnestly. You can’t ever remember being thanked like this. Appreciated. It feels good. Too good.

“You’re welcome,” you whisper, pushing the building apathy away. You want to enjoy this a little longer. “What I meant, though, is that the child… is dangerous. I’m not sure how many others they’ve killed.” She nods in understanding, though it’s sad.

“Of course. I suppose you shall be leaving, then?” You can hear the loneliness in her voice, and how, you think to yourself, could that kid have ever killed this woman? Monster or not, Toriel is - she is -

\- too awfully much like you.

“Not immediately,” you say before you can think. Blinking, you swallow the lump in your throat. “Of course, I wouldn’t want to impose on you.”

“Nonsense,” says Toriel, brighter than before. You feel a sense of accomplishment. “You need to recover, and you can rest here. The bed might be a bit small, though…”

“That’s fine,” you tell her, honestly.

“And I can make you a pie,” she beams, and you feel yourself smile back, eyes suspiciously wet.

And it’s not blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments are delicious. I consume them with care.
> 
> In other news, something missing in this chapter shall be covered in the beginning of the next. Stay tuned.


	3. Aberrations, Anomalies, and A Mom Leaves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fantastic.
> 
> This is _much_ worse than the landslide.

You wake with a full body shudder; the visceral sense that something is immensely wrong shooting through your chest in an explosion of adrenaline. You’ve made a mistake. Staying on the mountain for so long had ruined your senses; you’ve become used to its time abnormalities. Despite the enormity of the situation, you hadn’t noticed… and you could kick yourself for that.

The Underground is locked in a time-loop.

Not a typical one, no - which you’re thankful for. Almost. No, this is one instituted and controlled by a single party. The child. They simply _had_ to come into their blessing now of all times. And you’re the one who’s going to have to guide them through it. Why couldn’t this have happened on the surface? Why couldn’t Determination deal with this travesty of fate?

You shove the anxiety down and away where it won’t reach you for a long while. You can deal with it later. You can deal with it.

Stretching your sore joints, you leave the guest room and walk into the kitchen, where Toriel is, indeed, making butterscotch cinnamon pie. You’re not sure what time of day it is, or if the Underground even has a concept of day and night. You shake off the thought and focus on your objective.

“Toriel…?” you call.

“Hmm?” she hums in response, bustling happily around the kitchen. If you hadn’t seen her distraught and newly revived, you might’ve even been fooled by her currently joyful demeanor. But you’re not. And she’s not.

“I’m not sure how much you know about time anomalies,” you begin, and seeing the confusion upon her face, you continue on in more detail, “but there are… circumstances known as aberrations in time. They’re more common now than they ever were before, because of the accumulation of Blessed Children throughout the ages.”

“Blessed Children?”

You gnaw on your lip, wondering how much you need to explain, and how much you can leave out for her to either know or infer on her own. “The Blessing is what gives human souls their magic. Their traits. Their colors. The Blessing is determination. Every human soul has a small trace of determination, but the red soul, the determined soul, is pure determination. We call them Favored Children, because they are favored by the blessing. But when a Favored Child is especially powerful, their blessing… their magic… it can take a form known to manipulate time itself. We call them the Blessed Children, and though they are rare - only one every so many centuries - we have had enough throughout history to significantly impact the time stream.”

“I think I understand,” says Toriel. “These children… These Blessed Children… they’ve messed with magic they don’t fully understand, and have left complications… aberrations… in their wake?”

You nod, and elaborate a little further on how these “complications” have compounded in recent years. “The anomalies are a very recent issue. With the amount of time manipulation that has occurred, with how much the power has been abused and overused, little pockets of space have been left that operate on radically different time streams. For example, I live on Mount Ebott, and there is a very, very small time loop that occurs within it. So a trek down the mountain may in fact be three trips down it, or two, or seven. It can’t be predicted or controlled.”

“And that’s what is happening down here, because of the barrier?” Toriel puts one hand to her face in concern, and you shake your head, dreading the news you will have to impart on her.

“No, the time-loop down here, it’s controlled. It’s… not exactly random, but I believe…” Closing your eyes, you inhale slowly, letting your energy fan out and settle. “The child that fell down here. The one that is killing the monsters.” She flinched. “They have control over it. _Impressive_ control. They can jump between time streams of when they arrived to… and spot they left their manifested determination…” You feel your brow scrunch in concentration. “It’s not like the time pocket I came from. We won’t remember if time is folded over and rewritten.”

“A child should not have that kind of power,” Toriel says suddenly and sternly. You agree. This is much worse than you initially estimated.

“I can manipulate small amounts of determination myself, due to the infinitesimal amount I am blessed with as a human.” You meet her eyes. “I meant ask you this later - but would you be willing to accompany me through the rest of the underground?”

The change is instantaneous. Her expression turns somber, and she opens her mouth to refuse you (kindly, you are sure). You raise one hand for her to hear you out.

“Please,” you say, almost certain there is a note of desperation in your voice (but surely there isn’t?) “When I revived those monsters earlier, in the Ruins, they were all terrified of me. Perhaps it was because I am human. Or the nature of their deaths. But I would not only deeply enjoy your company, but be grateful for your presence to deter any animosity from the monsters I revive.”

From what you can interpret of her expression, Toriel is fighting with herself. “But I cannot leave the Ruins,” she insists. “If another human was to fall down…”

“Very few venture onto the mountain,” you assure her. “They have a belief that anyone who ventures up it will not return. And with the recent disappearance of the Favored Child, I doubt anyone will be out and about on their own.”

“But…”

Gently, you continue, “And even if one were to fall… it would not be for a long time. With the state of this time pocket, I’m certain the child has been down here for numerous resets and jumps. Only a few days have passed above ground, and that is a significant amount of time passage… time discrepancy… between a loop and unfiltered time.” You take a moment to breathe. “I do hope that makes sense,” you say.

“Somewhat,” murmurs Toriel. “But if what you’re saying is true, won’t it register as one timeline for us? Because we will not remember the jumps and resets, as you call it.”

“Ah,” you say. “Well, it would, normally, but as I mentioned earlier, I can manipulate small amounts of determination. I can keep us from forgetting.”

“Truly?” she returned, interest clear on her face. “That is fascinating. But I cannot, in good conscious, leave -”

“I won’t insist again if you are certain,” you interrupt, feeling only a momentary regret for doing so, “but I would… really, really enjoy it if you could.” Swallowing, you continue, knowing it would be a low blow, “And I’m sure you have friends you would like to check on.”

“I suppose,” she concedes, “it will be alright if I do, seeing as most of our actions will not last for very long. Would you like a slice of that pie now?”

“Very.”

* * *

Toriel hesitates at the door, paw hovering in the air before its surface. She clenches her eyes shut, exhales sharply, and opens it. You are immensely glad you wore both your coat and cloak for this outing-turned-adventure, for the blast of winter air that hits you is bitter cold. Unlike Mount Ebott, which you have precautions put into place for the weather, this is a vastly different sort. Magic cold bites through magic shields like a rabid dog.

Thanks to her fur coat, Toriel is unaffected. You’ve assured her memories are stable for now, as well as your own, so you cannot afford to split your attention between time manipulation and temperature regulation. The sigils and runes etched into the fabric of your coat will have to do.

(You wish you had one of Kindness’ sweaters. The children all received them, and her work is infinitely better than your measly attempts.)

Plodding through the snow, you feel it crunch beneath your boots, fallen branches snapping beneath the layers of snow. The towering pines that line each side of the path are ominously still, and the silence is far-reaching. You wonder how far the child has reached by now. How many are dead.

“Will you be able to bring them all back?” asks Toriel. You spare her a glance, before turning away, burying your nose into the scarf she let you borrow. Because of your lack of practice before this, you’re not sure of your limit. But that’s inconsequential. You _have_ to bring them all back. So you will PERSEVERE.

“Yes,” you say.

The first soul residue you come across nearly startles you. With the ever-present snow flurries, you suppose that the dust has been completely covered by snow, hiding it from view. You pause over where you guess it is (since the soul is steadfastly hovering above this spot) and consider your next move.

“Is something the matter?” asks Toriel. You look to her, then at the soul, and feel exhaustion settle in your bones.

“There’s a monster here,” you tell her, kneeling in the snow. It’s cold but not wet, so you don’t worry about it soaking through your pants just yet. Pulling off your gloves, you reveal your hands - the ash grey color has spread up your fingers and past your knuckles. Your fingertips are much darker, and your nails have turned black.

“Is that… normal?” she asks, kneeling with you. You nod. “I see,” she murmurs.

Judging the primary area of the dust, you scoop your hands under the snow, the shock of cold going suddenly numb as you hastily guide the soul down. Toriel is watching, enraptured with curiosity as you begin your chant, no plumes of misty air leaving your lips as you focus your intent.

The child - for it can only be a monster child - reforms rather slowly, but when they are back to what you assume is their normal (a snowflake-esqe duck creature) they immediately startle and fall on their bottom.

“W-Where?” they stutter, looking around frantically for a danger that has already passed.

“You’re alright now, child,” Toriel hushes, gently patting the child’s shoulder, before encasing them in a hug as they sob. You watch, uncomfortable, as the scene plays out; choosing instead to keep moving forward, reviving the next monster and the next.

The process happens slowly, and for each time it takes you to revive a monster, Toriel has comforted the last and moved on to help you with next. By the time you are done, you are breathing heavily, no longer cold, and the monsters have left to search for their family - which you highly suspect are dead, too.

It’s when you come across a sentry station with a soul floundering about it that everything comes to a head.

You blink and find yourself kneeling before a pile of dust. Your head is swimming, thoughts and memories piling up on top of each other. With how long you’ve lived on Mount Ebott, within its time pocket, you’ve gained a small amount of immunity; Toriel, on the other hand, is bowled over, issuing cries from the newly revived monsters.

Struggling, you crawl towards her, desperate to help. One of the children makes the incorrect assumption that you’ve done this, and, unable to take Toriel and run, they do the next best (worst) thing:

They attack you.

A crescent-shaped manifestation of magical energy comes barreling at you, startlingly accurate in its trajectory. You can’t dodge from your prone position on the ground, and instead take it directly. It slices through your neck cleanly, your head knocked right off your shoulders and sent arcing through the air. It’s all very dramatic: almost as though it’s in slow motion, you see the snow flurries falling, strands of your hair drifting alongside, and the snow covered ground coming up rapidly in your vision until you crash into it, face-first.

Fantastic.

This is _much_ worse than the landslide.

* * *

Unbeknownst to you and everyone else, a flower watches from a distance, wide-eyed and shivering. He ducks beneath the snow and back into the warm earth, scurrying away.

* * *

Another long distance away, a child cries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wibbly wobbly timey wimey explanations
> 
> also, this fic was inspired by not only every reader has magic trope fic i've ever read, but this one in particular: tailored. by starsighted
> 
> if you like mage!reader that resurrects people, take a looksy at it.


	4. Comfort&Claustrophobia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Stay determined, Persephone…”

Everything feels warm. Like your head is being cradled, and you are safe, and everything is blanketed by a numbing haze. It’s an odd, almost familiar sensation - but your thoughts are drifting, and you can’t quite piece together the memories of where you’ve felt like this before. Or where you are. Or what happened.

“ - you cannot give up just yet…”

Who is talking? Who is that? They sound familiar. Kind. You wonder if Kindness is holding you. Why would she? She’s always been the touchy-feely sort, but never with you. Never beyond a quick hug or pat on the shoulder, but even those are… wary…

“Stay determined, Persephone…”

You feel your eyelashes flutter. There is a wrongness about your body. A striking numbness that is not normal. No, not numbness - a disconnect. You remember now. The time you’d lost your arm. It had been crushed beneath a boulder, during the landslide. It had been twisted and mangled and to sit up right you’d had to dislocate it and shatter the bone. Then you couldn’t get it out. And you’d cut it off.

Your body is six feet away from you.

Your head is being cradled by Toriel, who is sobbing and attempting to heal you with her magic.

The connection is weaker than it should be, and you wonder if you have pushed yourself too far, finally. But you can’t stop here. You refuse to. Your finger twitches, slowly, and your hands press into the ground. Distantly, you feel your body rise, hear the children scream and Toriel still. Your body wobbles over to where you - your head - are.

Toriel isn’t looking at you when you open your eyes. You can feel them burning, but not like when you revive someone. This is the warmth of a candle. Layers of blankets on a chilly night. Comfortable. Familiar.

“Toriel,” you whisper, and she gasps. “Would you… help me? I can’t… get my head on straight…” Weakly, you snort. She doesn’t pick up on the joke.

“Of - Of course,” she says, standing and carrying you to your body. Seeing it from this angle is strange. Very strange. The top half of your shirt is stained with what is very obviously blood. Your coat, on the other hand, is made of a very dark fabric and only appears darker towards the upper half. Your cloak, which is customarily black, shows no change besides a slight shimmer near the top.

Your neck is viscerally graphic.

Distantly, you consider telling the kids to look away.

Toriel is very hesitant about putting your head on, understandably, and so you take it from where she left it (very gently) on your neck, and push down. You hear your vertebrae crunch as you forcibly grind them together, the others grimacing, and your own magic kick starting at the sensation.

The rather mortally-dangerous wound motivates your self-healing to work much quicker; and as a result, messier. Your head is reattached, but there’s a nasty scar left in its wake. You feel it raised against the skin of your neck, likely ugly in appearance. At least stitches weren’t necessary this time.

“Persephone?” ventures Toriel. “How…?”

“You said -” your voice is hoarse, so you cough, then continue. “You said that only children have fallen down since the barrier was enacted, right?” She nods. “Children… haven’t received their blessings yet. They have magic, weak but multipurpose. The blessing is gained during apprenticeship, or graduation, or adulthood. It’s powerful magic, individualized to soul type.” You pause, seeing that the children are listening, curious and captured with your tale. You go on, nevertheless.

“If only children have fallen down here, then you wouldn’t have experienced blessings. This would be… startling, I expect.”

“Very much so,” she agrees. “But, I remember the time from before we were forced underground. Mages then did not have these capabilities, though I admit to not knowing much of their powers.”

“Ah,” you say. “Well. Magic has evolved, just as humanity has. Some magic works alongside technology. Some works better with older practices. Before the barrier… I’ll be honest, I never paid much attention in history, but I do know that any records of monster kind have been lost. The burnings not only lost us mages to fire, but books and records and grimoires.”

Each of the monsters’ eyes widens, but it’s the snowdrake child that speaks. “B-But -! How could humans just forget about us?”

You wince.

“I’m sorry,” you tell them. “I’d like to say I speak as a whole for humanity, but as with every species, there are those that hold different opinions. We never meant to forget you - not that I’m aware of, anyways. The burnings were… The burnings were something long led up to, because of fear and bias. I’m certain that is also what led to your stay down here.”

“The burnings,” mutters Toriel. “The witch burnings? Those had begun a little before the war. They stopped when the mages joined forces with the rest of humanity, and I was certain they wouldn’t continue after the barrier was enacted.”

You shake your head. “No… it only became worse after that, if my idea of the timeline is correct. After the barrier, the rest of humanity turned on the mages. The power disparity was too large, and as much as people prize power, they also fear it. The burnings went wide and far; but those were put to a stop with the uprising. But while this is important to know, and I, too, am curious how this all fits together - we should hurry. I have no idea how far the child has gotten, but we might catch up sooner if we reach them before another jump happens.”

“I agree,” Toriel nods. The children share looks, then scatter. Toriel frowns after them, but does not comment as you expect her to. Instead, she hands you your scarf, thankfully unharmed. It’s the same shade of red as your hair, a deep wine color that easily hides blood.

“Thank you,” you murmur, wrapping it around your scar. And thus the two of you take off for the sentry station with the flustered soul.

* * *

The time jump does not occur again. You manage to corral the jumpy soul into cooperating, reviving it to its previous state: a rather poor-sighted monster dog, who is also, to your ever-poor luck, a sentry guard. Who has just suffered a violent death at the hands of a human, and seeing as you are human (though _he_ doesn’t see that - rather he smells, or guesses, or concludes) he attacks you.

Toriel scowls at him furiously, though he cannot appreciate the steel of it fully, and he is cowed by her stern words. He apologizes, thanks you for your kindness (and even though it is forced, it feels nice to be appreciated for your work) and runs off to locate his fellow Royal Guard members. Who are also, probably, dead.

“Poor dear,” says Toriel, echoing your thoughts. “Poor dears. Poor, poor dears. Whyever would Frisk do such a terrible thing?”

Rather than concoct some biased reasoning behind the child’s decisions (for you were growing to dread meeting them more and more) you focus on the part that truly catches your attention: “Frisk?”

Toriel looks at you with surprise. “That’s the child’s name. You did not know that?”

“No. I’ve never… actually met them before. I lived on the mountain, after all. And they lived in Ebott, in their own special housing, where they received their own catered caring…”

Pursing her lips, Toriel stopped walking. “That doesn’t… sound right,” she finally says. “Frisk didn’t strike me as a selfish or spoilt child. They were… I’m certain that rather than what you think they are like, they are actually more like _you_.”

“Me?” you repeat, dumbfounded. “That can’t be right. I mean…” No, it would make sense. The children not noticing their absence without so much as a second glance. Them being an orphan. Toriel’s surety. They must be… lonely. Like you. Like Toriel.

But they’re dealing with it the wrong way.

“Maybe,” you concede. “Maybe not. We won’t know for sure unless we ask, but I doubt they’ll be up for talking.” Toriel looks away, paws clenching. “But, uh, maybe I can talk some sense into them. Seeing as I’m a mage, and they’ve grown up listening to mages as role models. Or you can… but don’t get within attack range. Maybe there’s something else behind this all.”

“Yes,” she trails off. You look away, unable to deal with the sorrow she is emanating. All of the despair in the Underground is getting to you. The familiar itch is building under your skin, urging you pull on your hair. You try to ignore it for a little longer. Your hair is already short from the accidental haircut that was being beheaded. A bob isn’t that bad. You can deal with a bob.

The monsters that you’ve resurrected have wandered into town, searching and calling for their loved ones. You and Toriel pass them with grim looks. The buildings are abandoned and boarded up; there are no signs of life here.

It’s there, at the edge of town, that you find the last soul to remain unresurrected. You gently coax it to follow your hands, down to the pile of dust and into your strained ritual. Your eyes are bleeding again, and your palms shaking, and Toriel has one paw on your shoulder as she whispers encouragements. In your exhausted state, you almost can’t comprehend what you see. Standing before you is a monster, alive and intact, but also… a skeleton.

In your rather drowsy state of mind, now worsened by the conclusion of the ritual, you feel yourself blink sluggishly. A… skeleton? A corpse? Had you not used enough magic, not paid enough attention? Is he aware; is he suffering? Not having skin must hurt. Not having fur must be cold. You reach out, fingers brushing his hand.

“Are you… okay?” you slur.

“I… AM?” responds the not-quite-a-corpse skeleton.

Toriel picks you up. Your head lolls against the crook of her arm. “Do you know of somewhere we can rest?”

“YES…” trails off the skeleton. Then, seemingly gathering his wits about him, continues in a persistent tone that reminds you of how Kindness got when she learned you weren’t taking proper care of yourself. “OF COURSE! THE BOTH OF YOU MAY REST AT THE GREAT PAPYRUS’ HOUSE.” To which he tacks on, “And My Brother Sans’, I Guess. Though He Doesn’t Pay The Rent Like I Do, That Lazybones!”

“That’s very kind of you,” Toriel returns weakly. Perhaps she is as tired as you are.

“O-Of Course!” he whisper-shouts. “Is The Human - Is He Alright?”

“Yes. With a little rest and some nourishment,” she replies, voice fading in and out of your awareness, “he should be fine…”

You drift off into a fitful slumber.

* * *

“... I Understand That There Are Dangers, And I Am Fully Prepared To Face Them. But My Brother…”

There are lights flashing behind your eyelids, sparks dancing in the darkness. Your head feels full of cotton, and you’re not sure if your hands have been dismembered or if they’re simply too numb to feel. The voices in the next room over carry on in their hushed whispers, while you struggle beneath the layers of blankets piled on top of you.

After hearing the same arguments back and forth (spoken with the utmost respect and politeness that it’s almost unnatural) you decide to butt it.

“Toriel… just let him come with us. I’m sure I can manage to keep his memories intact as well.”

Silence falls over the kitchen (which you’re by now certain they’re in) and Toriel comes bustling into the living room, followed by the skeleton monster. You’re now aware enough to realize this is, in fact, his normal form.

“HUMAN,” he starts, “You’re - Alright Now?”

“Yeah,” you sigh, flexing your fingers. Where have your gloves gotten off to? You don’t much like looking at how stained they are now. You swear you can even see peeks of - no, you’ll ignore that for now.

“Dear,” says Toriel, “you’re magically exhausted. You’ll not be able to handle reviving the rest of the monsters and keeping our memories safe. I couldn’t - I was supposed to keep you safe, and yet, again and again… you’ve been hurt…” She looks stricken, and your heart wrenches painfully in your chest. This is why you didn’t interact with others. Either they couldn’t handle your power over the dead, or they couldn’t deal with this one.

It’s painful, after all, to see someone you care about be mangled over and over again.

“It’s okay, Toriel. I didn’t ask you to protect me; it’s not your job. I’m an adult, I can take of myself. And anyways… I don’t feel pain like normal people. Everything’s a bit dull. So what happened earlier… you can rest at ease about it.”

“No,” she says, shaking her head. There are tears threatening to fall. “I cannot. I cannot ignore your suffering simply because you are numb to it now. That simply makes it worse… that you must experience this sort of pain often enough that it no longer bothers you…”

“That’s not it at all -” you begin.

“I AGREE WITH HER MAJESTY - Excuse Me, LADY TORIEL,” says the skeleton monster - hadn’t he said his name before? Papyrus, like the font? “ANY KIND OF PAIN IS BAD.” He puffs his chest out, standing akimbo. “BUT WITH THE GREAT PAPYRUS ACCOMPANYING YOU, THE BOTH OF YOU SHALL BE PERFECTLY SAFE! I GUARANTEE IT! NYE-HEHE.”

“Thank you, Papyrus,” Toriel says kindly, smiling indulgently. And… almost fondly?

“Yes,” you agree, “thank you. And, um. Come here for a moment, would you?” It’s subtle, but you see him hesitate. “I simply want to ensure that your memories remain safe from time jumps. You won’t feel a thing. When the time jump itself occurs, though, it may hurt; are you sure you want to accompany us?”

“YES,” he answers immediately. “I MUST FIND MY BROTHER AND SEE THAT HE IS OKAY. HE IS… STRONG, BUT…”

“I understand,” you tell him, letting an increment of your determination run just above his magical signature. Not under, not within, just above - you’re not sure how a being without determination would react to suddenly having it in their system, after all. “If you’re both ready, then,” you say, “we must be going.”

“But you need to rest,” insists Toriel. You shake your head.

“I’ll rest when I’m dead,” you grin. Her lips quirk, but she keeps them thinned in reprimand. “Then we can rest a little while longer. We’ll leave in three - no, two hours.”

With that in agreement, you settle down for a little more rest.

The worry of how far the child - Frisk - can go in such a span of time fills you with dread.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note: is this graphic depictions of violence
> 
> note: gender fluid reader is gender fluid


	5. To Take A Dip, To Sink, Or To Wade Through

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Dear,” starts Toriel, wringing her hands. “I know this is a lot to ask, on top of everything else… but you’re our last hope.”

Waterfall is a much more manageable temperature. It’s beautiful, with long and glossy bodies of water scattered about, wildlife thriving and gently swaying. But it’s silent - quiet in a way that reveals its emptiness. As you walk, Toriel and Papyrus keep up a steady stream of conversation, that, while not loud, fills the aching silence.

You feel quite suddenly shy about using your blessing. Papyrus is watching with the eager curiosity of a child, and though you know you can expect no judgement from him, your gut churns anxiously at the visible reminder of how odd your magic looks.

It’s all you can notice, when you pull of your gloves, when you hesitantly call forward the wandering, softly bobbing soul: the pallor of your forearms, the wisps of grey that mottle your wrists. The black of your fingertips, the dust clinging to your fingers. The sight fills you with the same grim realization it always does; but somehow, today, here, in this moment… it’s so much worse.

You imagine how it looks from the outside. Do they think it odd, how your eyes trace seemingly nothing in the air? Finding the piles of dust with ease, and reach for that nothingness, pulling life from death so _easily…_ Does it scare them, too? More than anything, though, you cannot help but notice the translucence of your skin - the way your bones so readily shimmer in the unearthly glow of your magic. It’s unnatural. Abhorrent. Freakish.

You push the self deprecating thoughts away. It’s best not to ruminate on those for too long.

“WOWIE,” Papyrus says, startling you. You hadn’t noticed, but Toriel had already taken the monster aside and given them a rundown of what’s going on. Had you dozed off? “That Was Amazing! And Did You See That Too? The Way Your Flesh Glowed And Then Your Bones Showed Through? It Was So COOL!”

“Cool?” you murmur, not really comprehending what he was saying.

“YES! ABSOLUTELY!” He pumps his fist through the air, striking a pose. How… comically adorable. You stifle a snort. “I Didn’t Know Humans Could Do That.” A ponderous expression takes over his face, before he cups his chin an obviously thoughtful manner. “I Wonder If… We Are Secretly Related?!”

This time you can’t stop the snort. He looks delighted, perhaps not in spite but _because_ of your laugh. You feel a sudden and strong burst of warmth for him. How sweet. How precious.

“Maybe,” you allow with a small smile. To your joy, he beams back. “Humans have machines that can make their bones visible. Usually they aren’t, though. Mine just… my magic just does that, sometimes.”

He nods sagely, crossing his arms. You wonder, for a split second, how old Papyrus is. Do monsters age differently? Is he simply a child at heart? “Everyone’s Magic Is Different. My Brother, For Example, Is A Complete Lazybones, Who Never Uses Bones Attacks Like I Do! He Says They Are, And I Quote, ‘too much effort, heh.’”

“That… was a really good impression, Papyrus,” you say. “Though I’ve yet to meet your brother. Where… do you think he would’ve gone? Did he evacuate with the others?”

“I'M… Not Actually Sure?” Papyrus’ brow furrows, the bone morphing shape easily. “Sans Works A Bunch Of Jobs, Though He Usually Sleeps Through Them All.” He gives the far distance behind you a stink eye that can only be intended for his brother, wherever he is. “He DOES Have A Sentry Station In Hotland, Though! Maybe We’ll Find Him There.”

“Maybe,” you say again, though this time, it’s much more solemn.

* * *

Monsters, as Toriel informed you, and you noticed in the many souls you repaired and revived, do not have Determination.

Yet the soul flitting about a mess of dust and molten goop is most assuredly tainted with a aura of Determination. It’s desperate, flickering in and out of existence, dissolving and reforming in what you can only assume to be an agonizing state of… you’re not even sure. Is _this_ what happens to monsters who gain Determination?

“IS THAT… IS THAT _UNDYNE_?” is Papyrus’ horrified exclamation. Toriel comes up behind him, shadows lining her cheeks after countless encounters with death. She puts her hands on his shoulders and comforts him in the way you wish you could, but find yourself unable. So you do what you can, instead, and make for the dust.

You kneel before it, realizing you’ll need to touch the messy remains of… molten flesh. You’ve dealt with worse. You won’t be sick. The soul, on the other hand, absolutely refuses to return to the sickening state of its corpse. It practically hisses at you in disdain, rapidly darting about the surroundings. For a moment, it rests perfectly still in the air, facing the sobbing Papyrus. Gathering your motivation to SAVE, and to help Papyrus in the only way you know how… you reach out to the soul.

Perhaps it sensed your intentions through some blessing. Or maybe it realized it wouldn’t last long in its flickering state. Whatever happened, be it a coincidence or luck, the soul finally cooperated with you. It only took a minuscule amount of agreement from it for you to latch onto it, beginning the chant and doing your damnedest to restore Undyne to perfect condition. For Papyrus, if not her.

She reforms as a fish-like monster. Her hair is a lurid splash of red against her rather pale looking skin, likely from her recent brush with death. You feel self conscious of your own hair at the sight, combing your fingers through the choppy mess of dull wine red. Undyne’s is much prettier.

“Human,” she growls, arm raised high and spear aimed down. At you, you realize. You’re still kneeling. You can barely feel the ground beneath you. You can barely feel anything, any part of your body. Are you breathing? You’re not breathing. Or you simply can’t feel it. Is it numbness or is chest really not rising? You look down. Nope. Perfectly still. The grass swaying. Your hands still stained. Toriel yelling. Undyne screaming. Papyrus sobbing.

“Your Majesty!” exclaims Undyne. “I - why are you here? How -? How long has it been? Where did the human go?”

“All of your question will be answered, Undyne, as soon as you lower your weapon. This human has not only revived you, but the monsters of the Ruins, Snowdin, and Waterfall as well,” Toriel vouches for you, standing her ground sternly, protectively positioned between you and Undyne. How nice. How kind of her. Monsters are… kind. So very kind.

You rest your head against the ground from where you kneel. It’s more of a thump, really, but that doesn’t matter. Your vision is swimming like the aurora wriggling through the sky. Like eels. You’ve never seen an eel before, but your sure your vision is mimicking it.

“That’s not…” Undyne is saying, attempting to refute your hard work. How rude. But Papyrus is ensuring her the quality of your work, insisting that your magic is indeed, “REALLY AWESOME.” You give him a smooch on the cheek in gratitude. Or you think you do.

“Human -? Oh! Oh dear, Papyrus, give me a hand - Persephone? Can you hear me? Hold on, dear, hold on a little longer…”

_A little longer…_

… You can do that. You can _always_ do that.

* * *

 “You can take her to my house - them? Geez, Papyrus, you really pick ‘em. They switch faster than the shapeshifters do, and they’re freakin’ SHAPESHIFTERS!”

“Quiet down, you two. And good morning, darling,” Toriel greets you as wake up, groggy and generally shitty feeling. The ground keeps bobbing in your vision, and your stomach… You clasp a hand over your mouth. “Oh, oh no… Undyne? I think they’re feeling a bit motion sick. Why don’t you set them down and we take a breather?”

“Fine,” says Undyne, who is in fact holding you - with one arm, to boot. “It’s not like they were heavy or anything, though. They’re light as a feather.” She snaps a quick and rather intimidating arm flex, sharp teeth shining in a grin.

“FEATHER?” gasps Papyrus. “HUMAN, Are You Perhaps Related To Bird Monsters, Too?!”

“What?” says Undyne. “No way. They can’t be part monster.” She gives you a second look over. “...right?”

Still nauseous, you wait for her to put you down before answering. Not feeling any better on the ground, you groan into the dirt, Toriel rubbing circles on your back.

“THEY’RE TOTALLY RELATED TO SKELETONS!” Papyrus gladly answers for you.

“WHAT?” shouts Undyne. “No way! NO WAY! That’s… so cool!” There are stars dancing in her eyes that you immediately do not like the look of. “They’re like… a magical girl,” she breathes. “Can you switch between human and monster forms? Are they stars and sparkles and a beam of light that transforms you?!” Both her hands are on your shoulders… You’re shaken back and forth… back and forth… Oh _stars…_

“Undyne! Cease this nonsense right this instant! Can’t you see that you’re making them feel worse?”

Perhaps she would’ve scolded Undyne further. Maybe you would’ve said something, or Papyrus done something… but in that instant, you feel your nausea increase tenfold, and your stomach stretch - before snapping back into place, back to where you were in Waterfall before passing out. You throw up out of shock and pain.

Toriel loses her footing, but it’s only for a second. Either she has a better resistance to jumps than you previously suspected, or she’s very good at hiding it. Papyrus, on the other hand, is largely unaffected though very confused appearing.

Undyne gives a startled shout, jumping away from your vomit, you grasp your stomach, cursing your luck for umpth time in - right, no time at all has passed on the surface, very likely. Toriel helps you to stand, and you reluctantly lean onto her for stability.

“What the heck was THAT?” says Undyne, lip curling in disgust. Papyrus has a practically visible exclamation point above his head as finally realizes what happened.

“OH!” he shouts. “So THAT Was A Jump! How COOL!”

“What’s a jump and why’re you all acting so weird?” Undyne growls, stabbing her spear into the dirt. You blink rapidly into Toriel’s fur, feeling your gut roil in anticipation. Before you can say anything, a second jump occurs. It’s back to the same point: you, on the ground, no vomit in sight, and alarm slowly unfurling in the back of your mind.

“Toriel,” you gasp, able to rise to your feet on your own this time. “We need to hurry -”

“Do you think it will happen again?” she says, paws clenched. Papyrus is frowning, worried, looking between the two of you. Undyne is expectantly confused.

“What’re you two talking about?”

“If it does…” you trail off, a migraine forming. Time jumps back. You’re facing the grass.

“Why is it happening so closely?” says Toriel, voicing the one problem you hoped would not occur. You shake your head, gasping into the ground. “Didn’t… Didn’t you say these jumps only happened because of how Frisk was manipulating time? Why they being doing this?”

“I don’t know,” you lie. They must have reached an opponent they couldn’t beat. That’s beating them, badly, and very quickly. “But I have the feeling…” you say, “that this is going to continue.”

“BUT WE WON’T BE ABLE TO MOVE FORWARD!” Papyrus shouts in distress. Undyne shrieks in frustration.

“WHAT ARE YOU GUYS TALKING ABOUT?!”

“But this is good,” you say, suddenly. “This means Frisk isn’t moving forward either.”

“It’s a standstill for the both of us,” Toriel notes somberly. You nod, then shake your head. It’s happening again. You knock your head against the grass once the jump ends. Toriel looks at you in concern, you are sure, from the feeling of eyes you can feel prickling on your back.

“We must do something,” she insists.

“We can’t,” you mutter into the dirt, shaking your head. Papyrus shifts anxiously.

“If Only There Was A Way For Us To Move Forward Without Time Being Against Us…”

“Nope,” you tell him. “No way.”

“That does sound too good to be true,” Toriel admits. She brings a paw down wearily over her face. “Perhaps… you can try and wrestle the control over the time-loop from Frisk? I know it is a lot to ask for from you…”

Apologetic, you shake your head. “I can’t… not only am I not a Determined soul, but I’m not nearly as Blessed as Frisk appears to be.” You grimace. Why did that child have to cause so much trouble? Why did _you_ have to be the one to deal with it, and not any of the others?

“I have no idea what you losers - uh, and My Queen,” amends Undyne, “but it sounds a lot like you’re copping out to me. Yeah, maybe the kid’s powerful, but you can’t just not TRY!”

“But there’s no use,” you insist, struggling to your feet. “Even if I untethered myself from the their Determination…”

“WAIT,” says Papyrus, and you bite your tongue until it bleeds because _damn it!_ “Does That Mean You CAN Go Forward And Not Get Sent Back?”

Everyone turns to look at you. You sigh and scrub your face with your damn dirty hand. Gloves. Where are your gloves?

“Yes,” you admit, very reluctantly. “But that’s…” You fail to find a reasonable excuse.

“Dear,” starts Toriel, wringing her hands. “I know this is a lot to ask, on top of everything else… but you’re our last hope.”

“Yeah, PUNK!” shouts Undyne. “We have no clue what that killer -” she coughs and splutters on her words from the glare sent her way, “- er, human is planning to do! They could be almost at their goal now, and you’ve been holding out on us!”

“I - I know that, but really, I didn’t want to do this,” you say quickly. “If I do this - If I’m going to do this -” you’re cut off by another jump. As soon as you can, you gasp for air and continue, “I’ll need to release my hold on your memories. Best case scenario, you both remember everything up to this point, and I move on, and you both wonder where I disappeared to. Worst case scenario,” you swallow. “Uh, worst case scenario, you remember none of the timelines I’ve kept secure in your memories, and you have no idea how you got here or who I even am.”

 _“Oh,”_ gasps Toriel. You nod with a grimace. Papyrus is uncharacteristically quiet until manages a wobbly grin.

“HUMAN! I Promise You That The Great Papyrus Will Most Certainly NOT Forget You! Even If He Loses His Memories! Because He Will Always Remember You Here,” he moves one gloved hand over his chest, where his heart would be. “In My SOUL! NYEHEHE!”

“Thank you… Papyrus,” you whisper, beyond touched. Toriel gives you a watery smile, and you smile tentatively back, withdrawing all your Determination from them. You give her what might be a desperate and tight hug that’s lost to the oncoming jump.

Silence reigns for but a moment.

“Papyrus?” says Undyne, scratching her head. “Do you… Do you know if Alphys evacuated with the others?”

“I DON’T KNOW,” he replies. “DO YOU KNOW HOW I GOT HERE?” He scratches the top of his skull.

“Uh, now that you mention it…”

“Goodness!” exclaims Toriel, looking around in disbelief. “I… do not remember how I got here myself, either.”

You take a step back. The grass rustles, but no one turns to look in your direction. You knew this would happen. You knew it. Pulling yourself from the time-loop, extracting Frisk’s Determination from you… it would essentially extract _you_ from the surroundings. Their Determination is that far reaching - that immense. That sort of Blessing is what ruined timelines, distorted reality.

Why, despite knowing you would be practically invisible, forgotten, and overall _heartbroken,_ did you stick behind to watch this?

Maybe you had hoped they would remember in spite of everything.

You shake your head and turn, sprinting as best you can in the general direction you feel the core of the Determination emanating. You would find the source. You would… fix everything. And then maybe you could… restore their memories. That’s not your forte, though, and despite Integrity liking you even just the littlest bit, you doubt they would use their magic to restore your… friends’ memories for you.

It’s okay. No matter what happens, what you have to endure, you’ll PERSEVERE.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ,,, i, can't believe i mixed up buttercups with marigolds,, i'll fix it,, hurghhhh


	6. Softly, Tell Me How It Is So

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not so lazy after all.

You feel, distantly, several more jumps happen before you reach Hotland. You ignore the piles of dust and soul residue tainting the air. Nothing you do at this point will remain, and the best way to be helpful at the moment is to reach the child before they do any more damage. You’re intensely grateful to whoever is keeping them where they’re at. You HOPE they can hold on until you get there.

Hotland is, as the name suggests, very hot. Unbearably hot. Your legs are mush by this point, already severely numb and occasionally refusing to cooperate. At some point in your race against time, you wobble dangerously over the edge of a pool of lava. There’s… There’s no coming back from that. You think your heart may have exploded in your chest from the fright of it all.

Keeping yourself out of the time-loop has been surprisingly easy, however. You expected it to be more difficult, a constant struggle between your magic and Frisk’s. But it’s more like you disentangled a stray piece of their Determination that clung to you not on purpose, but as a consequence of everything being wrapped up their magic. In fact, it’s almost as if they aren’t even aware you’re here - which is probably more accurate than you initially thought. They’re a kid. They’re not in full control of their magic, and they’re not… targeting you. They didn’t sense your arrival.

You, on the other hand… You can sense them. You sense them everywhere, spread out over the whole of the Underground. It’s incredible, you’ll admit. You’re a little, maybe a lot, jealous. And frustrated. This kid has so much potential, but here they are, flinging around their magic and what? Killing monsters? You snort to yourself. Maybe Bravery told them one too many bedtime stories of heroic knights and damsels in distress.

Nevertheless, you reach a point, thoroughly worn out and ready to collapse, when you simply _know_ that they’re close.

Around the corner, you hear the echoing din of a battle. The power emanating from the room… it makes you sick. Kneeling down, you allow yourself a moment to catch your breath, half of your attention focused on the reverberations of powerful magic, and the other half on forcing your body to keep going. You can’t stop just yet; you can’t give up here.

There’s a strangled cry. Time loops. You can hear the difference, so quiet and still compared to just a moment ago. You wait, keeping your breath low, as you hear the kid’s footsteps sounding from where they returned in their jump. There’s another presence, the monster that’s been keeping them at bay. Your heart goes out to them, the tenacious fucker.

You rise, legs protesting, and feeling a sudden burst of energy, you dash through the remaining halls to where they’re at. The shadows fall ominously from the backs of immense pillars, and the kid stands on one side, and the other… the monster. You’re panting, haggard and no doubt looking like a corpse. He’s looking at you with shock - as is the kid. He’s a skeleton monster, like Papyrus, and you recall his mentioning of a brother - Sans.

Not so lazy after all.

“FRISK!” you shout, and the kid startles so bad they full-body flinch. Sans’ eye-light flickers from you to the kid, but you ignore him for the moment. “You. What have you been doing? For three days, the Council has been searching for you. Three days. Do you understand what that means?” You take a deep breath. “No. No you don’t. Do you even understand the consequences of your actions?”

Their shaking arm rises, a grimace on their features, as they point their knife at you. They’re covered in dust, shivering, and there are deep circles under their wide and frenzied eyes. You would curse under your breath if you weren’t so exhausted.

“kid.” says Sans, startling you. You forgot he was there for a moment. “i don’t know what’s going on here, or why there’s suddenly a second human, but i do know one thing. and that’s that time doesn’t pass normally outside a loop. so,” he continues, taking a step forward, and Frisk a step back, “just how long have you been fucking around for?” His eye is a menacing, bright flame of blue. You’re impressed with how good a job of intimidating the kid he does.

The kid is starting to shake their head frantically, and you see them clench their knife consideringly. You’re not going to put up with this again. You’re putting a stop to this _now._

“Don’t even consider resetting until I’ve finished talking, child,” you reprimand sharply, and they stare at you, shocked, before lunging at you with the knife. You let it sink into your abdomen, despite the way Sans moves as if to stop them. They look up at you, all terrified red eyes and desperation. Wrapping your gloved hands around their wrists, you keep them there, locked in your hold. They struggle, wriggling the knife, but after abusing your Blessing to this point, you don’t even feel it.

“Listen to me,” you say, brooking no room for argument. They stare at you. “I know you’re confused. You came into your Blessing while you were down here, alone, and without the proper guidance to show you on how to use it. But that does NOT excuse your actions. You’ve stirred up trouble for the Council, Ebott, these monsters, and _me._ What do you even have to say for yourself?”

“You…!” they hiss out, biting their lip until blood is drawn. “You don’t get it! You’re just like them!” They wrestle with your hold once more, forcing the knife further into you, before trying to wrangle it out again. When it doesn’t work, they screech in frustration.

“‘Just like them?’” you return. “You’re just a spoilt brat who isn’t getting their way! Quit fighting and talk things out for once!”

“as surprising as it is, i agree with the human, kid.” Sans, approaching slowly, glares down at the kid, who shakes and tugs at your hold. But they’re a child in the end, and you’re an adult. They won’t break free.

“The two of you…” they mutter. “You’re both so disgusting, thinking you know everything. Well, you don’t! You don’t know why I’m doing this! How they’ve treated us!” Beneath your grip, their skin prickles with heat. They look up at you with burning red eyes, wet with tears that trail through dust stained cheeks, and you see it - the loneliness, the misunderstanding, the anger.

Then a bone pierces straight through your chest, crushing their skull.

“heh. my bad, other human. but i saw a chance and i had to take it, ya know?” says Sans from behind you, and you turn to look at him, quite suddenly done with everything. You look at him with as little emotion as you can muster, and it must have been impressive for he takes a step back. “uh, it’s not you, it’s me?” he tries, but at that moment time rewinds and he’s standing at the other end of the hall, and your still here, bone pierced through your chest, stab wound in your gut, and no kid or knife to be seen.

“what the hell,” says Sans, and you suddenly burst into laughter - dull and very forced laughter. Frankly, he looks disturbed. Maybe you would be too on a good day, but today is decidedly NOT a good day.

“Just ignore me, please,” you wave off, repeating the same to the startled kid as they enter the hall. “Please,” you say, happy to note that your voice is perfectly steady. “Pretend I’m not here. It’s almost as if I’m not, see? Very good. Continue with whatever was happening before I arrived, because… uh… I’m going to…? Sleep now. Sleep. Yes.”

If they had started their pre-battle speech before you finished your mutterings, that was on them, not you. The rest, well, you’re not sure what happened afterwards, simply that neither Sans or the kid was there when you woke, and now, wandering down the halls with a gaping hole in your chest (your wound had closed around the bone, so you had to rip it out, subsequently reopening the wound…) you pass the piles of dust without a second glance.

At the very end of everything, you reach the kid, who may or may not be Frisk at the moment. You had felt _something_ change in them when you were holding them earlier. A spike in their magic, the dance of something else beneath their skin. You didn’t particularly care at this point.

“So,” you say, conversationally, and the kid doesn’t turn around. “If I don’t understand, then why don’t you just explain to me what’s going on. Because you’re probably starting to realize by now that I’m not going away that easily.”

“You… You…” mutters not-Frisk, and you’re certain of it now - their magical frequency is strikingly similar, but not exactly the same. It’s a bit deeper in frequency, not quite as bright a red. “You messed it all up. I had to kill _everyone,_ and then you show up, ruin everything with your power to SAVE them!” They whirl around, a magnificent fury painted across their face.

“Yeah,” you say. “I did.”

They stomp their foot in frustration. “You don’t get it!”

“Then explain it.”

“I - I can’t! Don’t you realize that you were a mistake and should never have shown up here?”

“Maybe I would if you explained why.”

They narrow their eyes. “Maybe, if I can’t kill you, I’ll simply torture you until you refuse to keep going. Yes, that would -”

“Nope,” you say, pointing to the hole in your chest. “Not going to work. I can’t feel pain anymore. And I’m dissociating so heavily right now I don’t think it would even matter if I could.”

“Then what do you want from us?!”

“An explanation?”

“FINE!” they screech, sitting down on the cold stone floor, legs and arms crossed. You slowly mirror their position, a few feet across from them. “Greetings,” they grit through their forced smile. “My name is Chara. I’m possessing Frisk.”

“Kinda gathered that,” you say. “And the kid’s okay with it, as far as I can tell.”

“Yes,” they reluctantly grit. “We’re both here. Together. One. But to stay that way…” Their grimace turns less severe, fading to an intense look of retrospection. “I’m not powerful enough to persist beyond the barrier. When it broke - many loops ago - I dissipated in nothingness. Frisk reset, and together we have been searching for a way to keep that from happening again.”

“You’re harnessing whatever it is you gain from killing the monsters, I presume?” They blink, then look at you with careful consideration.

“...Yes. It’s called LOVE, and it stands for Level Of ViolencE. With enough of it, it can carry over through the reset, and I can stay with Frisk even after we’ve broken the barrier and freed the monsters.”

“I… think I understand better now,” you admit. “I made a few, uh, assumptions when I learned what happened, as anyone else in my position would have.”

“I suppose,” concedes Chara. “But now we will have to reset and try again, simply because you have unbalanced the ritual. I cannot kill you… and yet I must kill _everyone_ for the magic to take effect…”

“You’re not doing that again,” you say, frowning. Before they can interrupt, you say, “Reset if you want, that way no one remembers this disaster. I thought you knew this, but I can revive you if you allow me to. And anyone else, for that matter. Though after this, I’m returning to my cabin and never leaving it again, not even for those damned Council meetings.”

Chara’s expression changes abruptly, melting away into something softer. The kid’s eyelashes flutter, lidding, and their cheeks lose the manic flush they had. “You’re part of the Council?” they ask, voice as soft as their appearance, and _oh no, they’re so soft and cute._

The apathy is stronger than your sudden development of parental urges, though, and quickly replaces it.

“Yeah,” you say. “I’m Perseverance. It’s… uh, nice to meet you?” Frisk frowns, looking away. When they turn back, they’re Chara again.

“It’s none of your business,” they explain.

“Right,” you say, nodding. “Uh. You know. I just realized.”

“What?” they hiss, growing impatient.

“Well. You probably noticed by now, but I used my magic to untether myself from the time-loop. So I’m essentially not part of… whatever system you’ve set up to count your kills for this ritual. I’m, uh, let’s put it this way: I’m an outsider, an aberration in the aberration. You can ignore me.”

Chara only gapes for a moment, but you store the memory away for later. You get the feeling that sort of sight is priceless.

“Then…” they say. “We can reset. And finally get everyone their happy ending. Right Frisk?”

The soft child you definitely don’t want to parent replies with an equally soft smile: “Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope i got Chara’s voice right... i’ve been considering trashing this chapter and rewriting it but... i feel it would come out exactly the same...
> 
> All of your comments are beautiful and i’m sorry i’m a social wreck <3 also, happy thanksgiving if you celebrate that
> 
> And here we have it. The end of part one to arc one, if you wanna get technical. Arc one will last maybe 5-10 more chapters? If i stretch it? Idk. I’ll probably take a break from this fic once we hit arc two tho (i’ll give an estimate of how long when it gets to that)
> 
> (Sorry i rambled)


	7. From the Ashes May Something New Rise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “human. don’t you know how to greet a new pal?”

The patch of golden flowers is a grave.

Frisk is kind enough to return to the Ruins with you so that when the reset occurs, you’re not left alone, aimlessly wandering the halls of New Home, softly lit with their warm, golden glow. It’s kind of them, and yet you find your gaze lingering on the buttercups with their pale, sickly yellow petals, and feel the unease crawl beneath your skin.

It reeks of death.

There’s a tug on your cloak, and you look down, Frisk frowning worriedly up at you. You give them a tentative smile though you know it looks awkward. “It’s nothing,” you tell them, fiddling with your gloves nervously. While your wounds are freshly healed over and indiscernible from the rest of your skin, your shirt is ruined. There’s the small, bloodstained slash from where Chara’s knife had sunk into your gut, and then the much larger, more noticeable hole in the fabric over your chest. You had fully fastened your cloak closed to preserve modesty, but you would be needing a change of clothes sooner rather than later - especially considering the worrisome bloodstains and propensity of monsters to worry needlessly. 

Frisk walks to the center of the flower bed, the grave, staring at the feet intensely. You don’t approach the grave.

Then the lights flicker. The sunlight streaming down in splotchy rays vanishes, and your surroundings darken, falling away into nothingness. Except, there’s still a faint outline of the walls, the ground, the flowers… You are not a part of the reset, and yet it tries to drag you into its pull. The ground is still steady beneath your feet, and though Frisk and Chara’s Determination is expansive, you aren’t a part of it. You’re here, but suddenly -

\- here becomes  _ there - _

_ \-  _ and you’re fighting to stay in a place that no longer exists, your feet pressing against an absent ground. Their Determination doesn’t touch you, and you’re lost, drifting. You messed up. You miscalculated. A reset isn’t the same as a jump; rather than returning to a point in time, they’re deconstructing and then reconstructing the very fabric of the Underground.

You’re stuck in between, now: in between the no longer existing Underground and the newly created one. When you prepared yourself for the reset, you had clung to your impression of reality - but now you’re stuck clinging to a place that no longer exists, and no hold to speak of on the new reality. Without Frisk or Chara’s Determination guiding you back like everything else in the Underground… you would be  _ lost…  _

But you focus, thinking of the ground beneath your feet… of the Underground’s magical frequency, Frisk and Chara’s energy… You would find it - you  _ would. _

Almost as if guided by a tether, you felt yourself be dragged back into reality - the  _ new  _ reality, inhabiting the space where the old one should have been, and you feel yourself  _ breathe. _

You stumble, taking one knee, and gasp for breath. Frisk hurries over to you, clearly concerned, and you raise one hand placatingly. “It’s good,” you say. “I’m good.” Taking in your surroundings, everything looks the same; although the sunlight is significantly brighter than before. Morning.

“You -” says Frisk, “You weren’t there. For a few minutes, you vanished. I thought… maybe…”

“I got a bit lost,” you tell them, not wanting to worry the kid further. “Let’s, uh, not make a habit of doing that though, okay?” They look away, scuffing their shoe against the ground. “It’s… Look, your power isn’t bad, but a reset is a lot more different than a jump than I thought. It could really damage reality if you use it too much.”

Their eyes go wide, before they nod vigorously. “This - This will be the last,” they assure.

“Alright. Good.” You nod. “Then let’s finish this up, so we can all go home.” The word “home” seems to hold a much deeper meaning for them, and despite what you’ve learned about them, you’re don’t know them. And maybe, just maybe, Toriel’s words ring through your mind with that same, heartaching weight: they’re lonely, like you. “And,” you say, regaining their attention, “you can come visit my place once we’ve left the Underground. It’s right on the mountain, after all… Unless you don’t want to…”

“I’d love to!” they say, grasping your cloak again with a look of pure joy. “And the others can come, too!”

“Uh,” you say. “I’m not sure if everyone would fit. But we can try,” you add hastily when you see their pitiful expression.

“Thank you,” they say, and bless their heart, you can’t but feel your chest swell with fondness for the kid. 

“Sure. Now come on.” You guide them by the shoulder, surprised at how easily they relax under your touch. Perhaps you’re too used to people shying away in either fear or revulsion at your hands. But that’s neither here nor now, and so you focus on the kid, Frisk, and Chara in there too.

There’s an odd little flower in the plot of grass that wasn’t there before, when you first fell. It has a face, and Frisk’s shoulders tense beneath your touch when you both approach it.

“Howdy!” he says, and rather harshly, you think that  _ it  _ would be more applicable than  _ he,  _ but the magic reads true, and this is indeed a monster. “Golly, you must be new to the Underground. My name is Flowey, Flowey the flower! And who might…” his perfectly constructed smile twitches. “...the  _ two  _ of you be?”

“Frisk,” is the kid’s quiet murmur. They clutch the wad of your robes in their fist tighter.

“Poppy,” you say. This garners you a glance from Frisk, and you give their shoulder a soft squeeze in response. The other Council members didn’t take up nearly as many names as you. They had too many associates for it not to become confusing, but you? You’re a hermit who lives on Mount Ebott. You can afford a few dozen aliases to conduct your business by, to give out to those you don’t trust or don’t think you’ll ever meet again. Names are binding, after all. 

The flower - Flowey - doesn’t looked pleased with your attempt at ill humor. “Well,” he says. “Frisk…  _ Poppy…  _ You two must be awfully confused! I can show you how things work down here in the Underground, if you like.” He doesn’t wait for confirmation. “You see, down here -”

And you sense it, the instant he tries to call out Frisk’s soul.

“Hey!” he shouts. “What are you doing? I’m trying to help you -”

You wave off his second attempt. It’s not hard to deny it, even for someone other than yourself, because keeping a soul  _ inside  _ is always easier than drawing it out.

Flowey scowls, leaves ruffling agitatedly. “Now, what was that for, buddy?” he croons. “I’m just trying to show you how things work down here.”

“I think we’re alright,” you say, intent on leading Frisk out of here. But as you gently push them to move on, they put a hand on yours, giving you a determined look. Though they don’t say anything, the message is passed along clearly: let them handle this.

Normally, you would be reluctant to let a kid deal with something like this. But Frisk has looped an unknown number of times down here, and must know the events like the back of their hand by now. You take a step back, giving them the go ahead sign. If anything, you’re glad to not be the one who has to take care of things for once in this horrible, awful time-loop.

The events that transpire happen as follows: Frisk’s soul is brought out, Flowey drops his act, and the kid gets attacked. You trust the kid to know what their doing, though your worry isn’t so easily abated. At the very last moment, Toriel bursts in, shooting a flame directly into the demon flower’s face. You snort.

You could attempt to say that the trip through the Ruins was nothing like the first time you did it. Except, that would be lie: the monsters are thankfully alive, but still overall the same, and though you’re grateful to see Toriel again… It’s not the same.

You can’t help but tease ideas of how to retrieve her memories, but you’re worried they might’ve been permanently lost to the reset. HOPE shimmers to life in your soul, however, when you overhear her conversation with Frisk on the phone - “I have the strangest feeling,” she says to them, “that we’ve met before.”

“Do they ever remember?” you can’t help but ask. Frisk works on solving a puzzle quietly, but you know they heard you. Patiently, you wait for their response, neither rushing them or pushing them to respond. 

“Sometimes,” they murmur. You hum in response. The puzzle is complete, and the path to the next room opens up. Frisk hesitates before moving on, and so you wait for them. They shuffle their feet nervously a bit, before gathering up the courage to ask you a question of their own. “You… said you were on the Council?”

“Yeah,” you say. “I am.”

“Then…” their brow furrows, “how come I’ve never seen you before?”

You look away. “Well, I live on Mount Ebott. It’s a bit difficult to visit Ebott.”

They wring their hands. “So… you live alone? And never… visit your soulmates?”

Perhaps the conversation’s not just about you. “I do,” you tell them, “when I’m needed for meetings. Otherwise? No. We don’t exactly get along.”

An odd expression comes over Frisk’s face then, and it’s not because of what you said. You raise your eyebrows in an inquiring manner, and they give you a bashful look. “It’s not… Uh, Chara said something mean.”

“Unsurprisingly,” you return. They frown, pouting at you.

“That’s mean,” they reprimand, doing a startlingly good imitation of a stern Toriel. You snort a surprised laugh, covering your mouth. 

“Yeah, you’re right. That was mean of me. I’m curious, though: what did Chara say?”

Expression twitching, their frequency spikes, then settles once more. When they look up, their cheeks are flushed and their eyes wide and guileless as they smile vacantly at you. “I doubt you ‘get along’ with anyone, with that horrid personality of yours. It’s no wonder you live alone.”

You whistle, patting them on the head. Their smile drops as they look up at you with unrestrained wrath. “You’re pretty good at that,” you tell them. “Poking all the sensitive points. Try again, but with a bit more subtlety. It packs more punch when it seems unintentional.”

“What?” they say, shrill. “Aren’t you mad? I essentially insulted you! To your face!”

“Yeah, a little bit. That just means you did a good job though, of trying to rile me up.”

“I’m done with this,” says Chara, scowling. In the next moment, Frisk is smiling at you - no, beaming - and wrapping their arms around your waist. The contrast is so drastic you nearly feel whiplash. You can feel them murmur a soft “Thanks” into your cloak. You pat their head awkwardly.

Toriel’s home is the same as you remember, but smells much more strongly of cinnamon and butterscotch than last time. She’s humming in the kitchen, bustling away, before she comes into the entry hall to find Frisk and you. You look away as she chides Frisk for not waiting for her to come pick them up. Your chest pangs softly before you push the feeling away.

Rather tired, you wave off Toriel’s concerns and bid your leave for a short rest. Frisk decides to stay with Toriel, so you have the bed to yourself. You’re not actually tired. When you lay down on the mattress, a foot too small for you but still adequately comfortable, you find yourself staring at the ceiling listless for an indeterminate amount of time. 

Somewhere between drifting through the haze of your thoughts and the odd pattern of Toriel’s ceiling, you feel a tug on your clothes. Your head turns lazily to the side, where you see Frisk looking at you with worry. You don’t notice that, though. There’s a scratch on their face. It’s not even bleeding, just a bright, scarlet red, and… you can’t help but stare at it. For an uncomfortably long time. They shuffle under your gaze, and blinking, you snap out of it.

“Are you okay?” you ask them, and they nod, pointing at the door. “Time to leave?” you guess, and they nod again. “Alright. Do you need anything?”

They don’t. You say goodbye to Toriel, who has her paws clenched together and refuses to look at either you or Frisk. Vaguely, you remember the way she was so insistent on not following you out into the rest of the Underground. Perhaps this is how things were supposed to go.

“Is she going to be alright by herself?” you ask Frisk as you take your first step into the snow. They shrug, pause, then nod. Rather abruptly, they grab hold of your hand and begin to tug you along. You let them guide you, taking in the sight and sounds of the forest as you’re led forward.

A branch snaps. 

Your head swivels around, but Frisk tugs on your hand, and you force yourself to ignore it. It happens again, and you sense that something is following you, though its aura is concealed. Frisk doesn’t seem overly worried, though their hand clenches yours as they continue on. Eventually, you reach a stop, and hear a voice from directly behind you (and you had been certain, up until that very moment, that there had been nothing there):

“human. don’t you know how to greet a new pal?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> frisk: (◡‿◡✿)  
> chara: (╹◡╹✿)

**Author's Note:**

> If you see any errors/tense changes, tell me and I'll fix them. I'm not quite used to writing in present tense just yet. Don't expect scheduled updates. I have a general idea of where this is going, and coffee is spurring me to write at the moment. Questions and comments may or may not be answered.


End file.
